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Giaour 1
= The Giaour Part 1 = a fragment of a Turkish tale Lines 1-500 Text from the 11th Print Edition, 1814 Printed by T. Davison for J. Murray Lines 0001-0100 # No breath of air to break the wave # That rolls below the Athenian's grave, # That tomb l which, gleaming o'er the cliff, # First greets the homeward-veering skiff, # High o'er the land he saved in vain # When shall such hero live again? # Fair clime! where every season smiles # Benignant o'er those blessed isles, # Which seen from far Colonna's height, # Make glad the heart that hails the sight, # And lend to loneliness delight. # There mildly dimpling Ocean's cheek # Reflects the tints of many a peak # Caught by the laughing tides that lave # These Edens of the eastern wave; # And if at times a transient breeze # Break the blue chrystal of the seas, # Or sweep one blossom from the trees, # How welcome is each gentle air, # That wakes and wafts the odours there! # For there the Rose o'er crag or vale, # Sultana of the Nightingale, # The maid for whom his melody # His thousand songs are heard on high, # Blooms blushing to her lover's tale; # His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, # Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, # Far from the winters of the west # By every breeze and season blest, # Returns the sweets by nature given # In softest incense back to heaven; # And grateful yields that smiling sky # Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh . # And many a summer flower is there, # And many a shade that love might share, # And many a grotto, meant for rest, # That holds the pirate for a guest ; # Whose bark in sheltering cove below # Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, # Till the gay mariner's guitar # Is heard, and seen the evening star ; # Then stealing with the muffled oar, # Far shaded by the rocky shore, # Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, # And turn to groans his roundelay. # Strange that where Nature lov'd to trace, # As if for Gods, a dwelling-place, # And every charm and grace hath mixed # Within the paradise she fixed # There man, enamour'd of distress, # Should mar it into wilderness, # And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower # That tasks not one laborious hour ; # Nor claims the culture of his hand # To bloom along the fairy land, # But springs as to preclude his care, # And sweetly woos him but to spare ! # Strange that where all is peace beside # There passion riots in her pride, # And lust and rapine wildly reign, # To darken o'er the fair domain. # It is as though the fiends prevail'd # Against the seraphs they assail'd, # And fixed, on heavenly thrones, should dwell # The freed inheritors of hell # So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, # So curst the tyrants that destroy! # He who hath bent him o'er the dead, # Ere the first day of death is fled; # The first dark day of nothingness, # The last of danger and distress; # (Before Decay's effacing fingers # Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) # And mark'd the mild angelic air # The rapture of repose that's there # The fixed yet tender traits that streak # The languor of the placid cheek, # And but for that sad shrouded eye, # That fires not wins not weeps not now # And but for that chill changeless brow, # Where cold Obstruction's apathy # Appals the gazing mourner's heart, # As if to him it could impart # The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon # Yes but for these and these alone, # Some moments aye one treacherous hour, # He still might doubt the tyrant's power, # So fair so calm so softly seal'd # The first last look by death reveal'd! # Such is the aspect of this shore' # Tis Greece but living Greece no more! # So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, # We start for soul is wanting there. # Hers is the loveliness in death, # That parts not quite with parting breath; # But beauty with that fearful bloom, # That hue which haunts it to the tomb # Expression's last receding ray, # A gilded halo hovering round decay, # The farewell beam of Feeling past away! Lines 0101-0200 # Spark of that flame perchance of heavenly birth # Which gleams but warms no more its cherish'd earth! # Clime of the unforgotten brave! # Whose land from plain to mountain-cave # Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave # Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, # That this is all remains of thee? # Approach thou craven crouching slave- # Say, is not this Thermopylae? # These waters blue that round you lave # Oh servile offspring of the free # Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? # The gulf, the rock of Salamis! # These scenes their story not unknown # Arise, and make again your own; # Snatch from the ashes of your sires # The embers of their former fires, # And he who in the strife expires # Will add to theirs a name of fear, # That Tyranny shall quake to hear, # And leave his sons a hope, a fame, # They too will rather die than shame; # For Freedom's battle once begun, # Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, # Though baffled oft is ever won. # Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, # Attest it many a deathless age! # While kingg in dusty darkness hid; # Have left a nameless pyramid, # Thy heroes though the general doom # Hath swept the column from their tomb, # A mightier monument command, # The mountains of their native land! # There points thy Muse to stranger's eye, # The graves of those that cannot die! # 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, # Each step from splendour to disgrace, # Enough no foreign foe could quell # Thy soul, till from itself it fell, # Yes! Self-abasement pav'd the way # To vilain-bonds and despot-sway. # What can he tell who treads thy shore? # No legend of thine olden time, # No theme on which the muse might soar, # High as thine own in days of yore, # When man was worthy of thy clime. # The hearts within thy valleys bred, # The fiery souls that might have led # Thy sons to deeds sublime; # Now crawl from cradle to the grave, # Slaves nay the bondsmen of a slave, # And callous, save to crime; # Stain'd with each evil that pollutes # Mankind, where least above the brutes; # Without even savage virtue blest, # Without one free or valiant breast. # Still to the neighbouring ports they waft # Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft, # In this the subtle Greek is found, # For this, and this alone, renown'd. # In vain might Liberty invoke # The spirit to its bondage broke, # Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: # No more her sorrows I bewail, # Yet this will be a mournful tale, # And they who listen may believe, # Who heard it first had cause to grieve. # Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, # The shadows of the rocks advancing, # Start on the fisher's eye like boat # Of island-pirate or Mainote; # And fearful for his light caique # He shuns the near but doubtful creek, # Though worn and weary with his toil, # And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, # Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, # Till Port Leone's safer shore # Receives him by the lovely light # That best becomes an Eastern night. # Who thundering comes on blackest steed? # With slackened bit and hoof of speed, # Beneath the clattering iron's sound # The cavern'd echoes wake around # In lash for lash, and bound for bound; # The foam that streaks the courser's side, # Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide: # Though weary waves are sunk to rest, # There's none within his rider's breast, # And though to-morrow's tempest lower, # Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! # I know thee not, I loathe thy race, # But in thy lineaments I trace # What time shall strengthen, not efface; # Though young and pale, that sallow front # Is scath'd by fiery passion's brunt, # Though bent on earth thine evil eye # As meteor like thou glidest by, # Right well I view, and deem thee one # Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. # On on he hastened and he drew Lines 0201-0300 # My gaze of wonder as he flew: # Though like a demon of the night # He passed and vanished from my sight; # His aspect and his air impressed # A troubled memory on my breast; # And long upon my startled ear # Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. # He spurs his steed he nears the steep, # That jutting shadows o'er the deep # He winds around he hurries by # The rock relieves him from mine eye # For well I ween unwelcome he # Whose glance is fixed on those that flee; # And not a star but shines too bright # On him who takes such timeless flight. # He wound along but ere he passed # One glance he snatched as if his last # A moment checked his wheeling steed # A moment breathed him from his speed # A moment on his stirrup stood # Why looks he o'er the olive wood? # The crescent glimmers on the hill, # The Mosque's high lamps are quivering # Though too remote for sound to wake # In echoes of the far tophaike, # The flashes of each joyous peal # Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. # To-night set Rhamazani's sun # To-night the Bairam feast's begun # To-night but who and what art thou # Of foreign garb and fearful brow? # And what are these to thine or thee, # That thou should'st either pause or flee? # He stood some dread was on his face # Soon Hatred settled in its place # It rose not with the reddening flush # Of transient Angers darkening blush, # But pale as marble o'er the tomb, # Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. # His brow was bent his eye was glazed # He raised his arm, and fiercely raised; # And sternly shook his hand on high, # As doubting to return or fly; # Impatient of his flight delayed # Here loud his raven charger neighed # Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blade- # That sound had burst his waking dream, # As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. # The spur hath lanced his courser's sides # Away-r-away for life he rides # Swift as the hurled on high jerreed, # Springs to the touch his startled steed, # The rock is doubled and the shore # Shakes with the clattering tramp no more # The crag is won no more is seen - # His Christian crest and haughty mien. # 'Twas but an instant* he, restrained # That fiery barb so sternly reined # 'Twas but a moment that he stood, # Then sped as if by death pursued; # But in that instant, o'er his soul # Winters of Memory seemed to roll; # And gather in that drop of time # A life of pain, an age of crime. # O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, # Such moment pours the grief of years- # What felt he then at once opprest # By all that most distracts the breast? # That pause which pondered o'er his fate, # Oh, who its dreary length shall date! # Though in Time's record nearly nought, # It was Eternity to Thought! # For infinite as boundless space # Which in itself can comprehend # Woe without name or hope or end. # The hour is past, the Giaour is gone, # And did he fly or fall, alone? # Woe to that hour he came or went, # The curse for Hassan's sin was sent # To turn a palace to a tomb; # He came, he went, like the Simoom, # That harbinger of fate and gloom, # Beneath whose widely-wasting breath # The very cypress droops to death # Dark tree still sad, when others' grief is fled, # The only constant mourner o'er the dead! # The steed is vanished from the stall, # No serf is seen in Hassan's hall # The lonely Spider's thin grey pall # Waves slowly widening o'er the wall; # The Bat builds in his Haram bower; # And in the fortress of his power # The Owl usurps the beacon-tower; # The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, # With baffled thirst, and famine, grim, # For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, # Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. # 'Twas sweet of yore to see it play # And chase the sultriness of day # As springing high the silver dew Lines 0301-0400 # In whirls fantastically flew, # And flung luxurious coolness round # The air, and verdure o'er the ground. # 'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, # To view the wave of watery light, # And hear its melody by night. # And oft had Hassan's Childhood played # Around the verge of that cascade; # And oft upon his mother's breast # That sound had harmonized his rest; # And oft had Hassan's Youth along # Its bank been sooth'd by Beauty's song; # And softer seemed each melting tone # Of Music mingled with its own. # But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose # Along the brink at Twilight's close # The stream that filled that font is fled # The blood that warmed his heart is shed! # And here no more shall human voice # Be heard to rage regret rejoice # The last sad note that swelled the gale # Was woman's wildest funeral wail # That quenched in silence all is still, # But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill # Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, # No hand shall close its clasp again. # On desart sands 'twere joy to scan # The rudest steps of fellow man, # So here the very voice of Grief # Might wake an Echo like relief # At least 'twould say, "all are not gone; # " There lingers Life, though but in one # For many a gijded chamber's there, # Which Solitude might well forbear; # Within that dome as yet Decay # Hath slowly worked her cankering way # But Gloom is gathered o'er the gate, # Nor there the Fakir's self will wait; # Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, # For Bounty cheers not his delay; # Nor there will weary stranger halt # To bless the sacred "bread and salt." # Alike must Wealth and Poverty # Pass heedless and unheeded by, # For Courtesy and Pity died # With Hassan on the mountain side. # His roof that refuge unto men # Is Desolation's hungry deu. # The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, # Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! # I hear the sound of coming feet, # But not a voice mine ear to greet # More near each turban I can scan, # And silver-sheathed ataghan; # The foremost of the band is seen # An Emir by his garb of green: # "Ho! who art thou? this low salam # "Replies of Moslem faith I am. # "The burthen ye so gently bear, # "Seems one that claims your utmost care, # "And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, # "My humble bark would gladly wait." # "Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, # "And waft us from the silent shore; # "Nay, leave the sail still fuii'd, and ply # "The nearest oar that's scattered by, # "And midway to those rocks*where sleep # "The channel'd waters dark and deep. # "Rest from your task so bravely done, # "Our course has been right swiftly run, # "Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, That one of # Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, # The calm wave rippled to the bank; # I watch'd it as it sank, methought # Some motion from the current caught # Bestirr'd it more, 'twas but the beam # That chequer'd o'er the living stream # I gaz'd, till vanishing from view, # Like lessening pebble it withdrew; # Still less and less, a speck of white # That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; # And all its hidden secrets sleep. # Known but to Genii of the deep, 385 # Which, trembling in their coral caves, # They dare not whisper to the waves. # As rising on its purple wing # The insect-queen of eastern spring, # O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer # Invites the young pursuer near, # And leads him on fr,om flower to flower # A weary chase and wasted hour, # Then leaves him, as it soars on high, # With panting heart and tearful eye: # So Beauty lures the full-grown child # With hue as bright, and wing as wild; # A chase of idle hopes and fears, # Begun in folly, closed in tears. # If won, to equal ills betrayed, # Woe waits the insect and the maid, # A life of pain, the loss of peace, Lines 0401-0500 # From infant's play, or man's caprice: # The lovely toy so fiercely sought # Has lost its charm by being caught, # For every touch that wooed it's stay # Has brush'd the brightest hues away # Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, # Tis left to fly or fall alone. # With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, # Ah! where shall either victim rest? # Can this with faded pinion soar # From rose to tulip as before? # Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, # Find joy within her broken bower? # No: gayer insects fluttering by # Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, # And lovelier things liave mercy shewn # To every failing but their own, # And every woe a tear can claim # Except an erring sister's shame. # The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, # Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, # In circle narrowing as it glows # The flames around their captive close, # Till inly searched by thousand throes, # And maddening in her ire, # One sad and sole relief she knows, # The sting she nourished for her foes, # Whose venom never yet was vain, # Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, # And darts into her desperate brain. # So do the dark in soul expire, # Or live like Scorpion girt by fire; # So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, # Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, # Darkness above, despair beneath, # Around it flame, within it death! # Black Hassan from the Haram flies, # Nor bends on woman's form his eyes, # The unwonted chase each hour employs, # Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. # Not thus was Hassan wont to fly # When Leila dwelt in his Serai. # Doth Leila there no longer dwell? # That tale can only Hassan tell: # Strange rumours in our city say # Upon that eve she fled away; # When Rhamazan's l8 last sun was set, # And flashing from each minaret # Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast # Of Bairam through the boundless East. # Twas then she went as to the bath, # Which Hassan vainly searched in wrath, # But she was flown Her. master's rage # In likeness of a Georgian page; # And far beyond the Moslem's power # Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. # Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd, # But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, # Too well he trusted to the slave # Whose treachery deserv'd a grave: # And on that eve had gone to mosque, # And thence to feast in his kiosk. # Such is the tale his Nubians tell, # Who did not watch their charge too well; # But others say, that on that night, # By pale Phingari's trembling light, # The Giaour upon his jet black steed # Was seen but seen alone to speed # With bloody spur along the shore, # Nor maid nor page behind him bore. # Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, # But gaze on that of the Gazelle, # It will assist thy fancy well> # As large, as languishingly dark, # But Soul beam'd forth in every spark # That darted from beneath the lid, # Bright as the jewel of Giamschid # Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say # That form was nought but breathing clay, # By Alla! I would answer nay; # Though on Al-Sirat's I arch I stood, # Which totters o'er the fiery flood, # With Paradise within my view, # And all his Houris beckoning through. # Oh! who young Leila's glance could read # And keep that portion of his creed # Which saith, that woman is but dust, # A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? # On her might Muftis gaze, and own # I That through her eye the Immortal shone # On her fair cheek's unfading hue, # The young pomegranate's blossoms strew # Their bloom in blushes ever new # Her hair in hyacinthine flow # When left to roll its folds below; # As midst her handmaids in the hall # She stood superior to them all, # Hath swept the marble where her feet # Gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet # Ere from the cloud that gave it birth, Navigation Category:The Giaour Category:Lord Byron Category:Fiction Category:Full Text Category:Horror short stories